


Feeding the Birds

by letssoakemforcrutchy



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:44:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2859470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letssoakemforcrutchy/pseuds/letssoakemforcrutchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows Spot Conlon's got ears on every corner. Even Duane Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeding the Birds

So it’s a hike, it is - a whole morning’s walk just to get to the tracks in time to peddle the afternoon edition, and most nights he ain’t even across the bridge before sundown - and the pay ain’t much better than what Specs and Dutchy make two streets from Duane, but he’d swear on his dead mama’s rosary beads he wouldn’t never sell anyplace else. Skittery tells him each morning how it ain’t worth it, how one a’ these days he’s _bound_ to get soaked by one a’ Brooklyn’s ‘cuz they’s _real_ particular about Manhattan blood on their turf, but it takes more than that to shake Racetrack Higgins. Any newsie worth his salt knows Sheepshead Bay is his.

It’s the atmosphere he loves. The excitement, the crowds, the knowledge that he could blow the whole day’s earnings or win ‘em back double, all dependin’ on whether Diamond Jubilee makes good today - it’s like liquor, the way it draws him in, keeps him comin’ back for more. And he knows how to play the crowds ‘round here like nobody else. The normal techniques, charm and oil and a good-spun tale, they don’t work on these folk. There’s a trick to this, a sort of _I know somethin’ you don’t but you can find out for just a penny, Mister, a real bargain_ attitude to get ‘em buying from you out of spite, but lay it on too thick and they’ll push you aside. After a couple weeks he’d mastered it, and that’s the real reason the Brooklyn boys’ve stopped comin’ after him, he knows. None ‘a them can figure out how to cater to this crowd, so they may as well let him have it.

He ain’t had a problem with Brooklyn for a while now, not since Pincer O’Connor knocked up his girl and lit out for Jersey, takin’ his quick temper with him along with the $1.87 he still owed Race. Not since Spot Conlon managed to elbow his way to the top, overnight practically, ‘fore anyone could even see him coming. But he’s a tricky one, that Spot. Hard to read. Like a tough customer, the kind where you never know if the next word’s gonna make or break a sell, every conversation feels like placing a bet. Least with Pincer he could figure out what sort a’ thing would earn him a black eye. Well, usually.

So Race ain’t so sure how to feel when he ducks beneath a stand to count his profit and catches the glint of a gold-tipped cane in the late afternoon sun. Though he _does_ know how he feels about the damn cane. The brat prince of Brooklyn may fashion himself a gentleman, but his hands are just as work-hardened and stained with ink as any other newsboy’s.

“Extry, extry,” Spot says, emerging from the shadows because that’s what he _does_ , he _lurks_. “What’s say I’m interested in the latest news?”

“What’s say you got the _Daily Eagle_ stickin’ outta your back pocket?” Race asks in return. He’s in no mood to play it safe, and they both know it. Spot’s after something, and it sure as hell ain’t the afternoon edition.

The corner of Spot’s mouth quirks up in a grin. “So maybe I’ve been hearin’ good things about the _World_.”

Pulitzer went through three headline writers just last week. Nobody’s heard good things about the _World_ lately.

“Then you know that it’s a penny for a pape.” Race holds out his hand, and is almost surprised when Spot begins to dig through his bag.

But it ain’t change he comes up with, it’s a cigar. A goddamned Corona. He sets it in Race’s outstretched palm like it’s nothing, just a smoke between friends, and Race gets this sinking feeling in his gut like he just placed a bad bet.

“So tell me what’s new from Duane Street.” It’s not a question.

Pincer tried to do this too, to leach information out of him. But he was never this blunt about it. Race got real good at evading his questions.

Pincer never offered Coronas.

Hell, it ain’t even like they’ve got things to hide. The newsies on Duane Street don’t live like the Brooklyn boys, where everything’s a competition and everyone’s got it out for each other. Manhattan’s mostly just a bunch of kids tryin’ to survive. He ain’t sure what it is exactly Spot wants to hear, but if he’s willing to offer a cigar for a bit of glorified small talk, it’s no skin off Race’s nose.

He pockets the cigar.

“Uh, new kid started living at the lodging house last week?” Race begins. It’s the only notable event he can think of. “He’s alright. Sorta odd.”

It’s hardly the next money-making headline, but Spot takes an interest all the same. Maybe, for all his airs and graces, he’s just as big a gossip as the rest of them. “Odd how?”

“Real jumpy. Calls Mr. K ‘sir,’ and gets all worked up whenever he walks by. And he don’t like people touching him neither. Blink put an arm around him the other day, and he flinched like he thought he was gonna _choke_ him or somethin’. I don’t think he likes any of us too much - only ever talks to Crutchy.”

“He got a name?” Spot prompts.

“Kelly. Jack Kelly. ‘cept you gotta yell it at him a couple times ‘fore he realizes you’re talkin’ to him.”

“So it ain’t his real name.”

Race rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ‘cuz everyone around here goes by his Christian name, _Spot_.”

“People _call_ me that. I didn’t tell them to,” he says, all lofty-like. Like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“Anyway,” Race says, steering the conversation back to Duane though he’s not half sure why. Skits tells him he likes the sound of his own voice too much, and maybe he’s onto something there. “Snipeshooter thinks he’s the same kid what made the papes a little while ago, the one who Warden Snyder’s after for busting outta the Refuge. But Snoddy says he ain’t got the guts.”

These are just rumors now, plain and simple. But Spot’s eating up every word.

“That story didn’t break here.”

“Yeah, well. They don’t want you Brooklyn hooligans getting ideas. And it ain’t the dumbest thing Snipeshooter’s come up with, I mean, it’d explain what the kid’s so keyed up about. And the boy in the papes was Irish too. Somethin’ Sullivan, Brendan or Patrick or—” 

“Francis?”

Something in the atmosphere changes, seems to crackle like the cheap pages of the papers they hawk each day.

“Yeah, that was it,” he says slowly. “Friend of yours?”

Spot shrugs. “Acquaintance.” Race waits for him to continue, but he seems content to leave the connection dangling.

Two can play at this game.

“Well that’s all I got about Duane,” he says abruptly, and begins to go through the motions of someone about to depart. If Spot wants this conversation to continue, he’ll have to contribute.

To Race’s disappointment, Spot does not rise to the bait. He simply gives a curt nod, and makes a parting remark of “We’ll see each other again soon,” before slinking away.

The whole encounter happened so quickly Race has to reach into his pocket and pull out the cigar to convince himself it actually happened. He lights it as he begins the walk back to Manhattan, certain that such a treasure would not remain in his possession for long once he reaches the lodging house. He’d trust the Duane Street boys with his life, but not his cigars.

Jack Kelly is sitting on the stoop when he arrives, long after sundown, with a cigarette of his own between his lips. Wordlessly, Race takes a seat next to him. Jack makes no attempt toward conversation, and Race indulges him. They smoke in silence.

Spot Conlon was a tough nut to crack. Jack Kelly will be even harder.

Racetrack always has loved a challenge.


End file.
